


Alunsina and the Asgang

by jumblejee



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, get prepared to see Lots Of Guts, ill add more tags along the way, my demons love eating them!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 04:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21452161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumblejee/pseuds/jumblejee
Summary: Alunsina is an aswang, specifically a manananggal, that feasts on newborn babies of different species to cope with the fact that she wasn't born normal like the rest of the human population. She joins a group of aswang that gather every Sunday night to break away from their bad habits as they also try to gain a positive reputation through humane living, which is more difficult than it sounds for the eight. Though, that's not the only bad habit she needs to cut off.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 2





	Alunsina and the Asgang

**Author's Note:**

> hi there! thanks for stopping by to read in a super self-indulgent idea of mine that i hope to turn into a book one day!  
let me know if you guys would like me to continue this! been working out the details of a few characters lately and i cannot wait to share them all with you through what i write!  
enjoy! :>

Aswang.

Whether you choose to believe them wouldn’t matter. The truth of the matter is, the mere mention of the name ‘aswang’ would make listeners reminisce times of old where these grotesque monstrosities would terrorize all that cross their path. You may find yourself recalling a time you think you heard footsteps on the roof or maybe you’ve heard of rumors where these mythical creatures prey on your friends at night. I’m sure some remember running away or maybe even being too curious for their own good. One thing is for certain, and that there are people who lived to see the light of day even after seeing an aswang.

One of them’s me. That’s probably because I’m not quite human, though.

What you don’t know, is that Sundays are our off-days. Mainly because the sight of churches and religious practices would ward us away, and all our possible victims go there on that day.

Before, our conservative ancestors would disguise themselves to be one with the humans and spend the night drinking. Sometimes share the occasional tale of eating a human or two.

Although, times have truly changed now, haven’t they?

Not a lot of us are left. The ones that did remain still go on their human-consuming ways, still striking terror into the hearts of children and superstitious others. I begin to wonder if they ever get tired of eating the same thing for centuries. I know I have.

It let me hear things I heard in my house. A thump. A glass breaking. A shriek. A whisper. Being the youngest of five, there was always that sort of chatter buried under whatever my older sisters were talking about. Whether it comes from the washroom in their school or the cemetery we live next to, there wasn’t a day where I didn’t hear rumors about a ghost lurking about my life.

When the voices started, my family told me I was just making things up to get attention. I had to admit, I was a sucker for attention. You couldn’t quite blame me for it, I was rather neglected. My four sisters were all prodigies. Getting high grades, honors and recognition were all that mattered to my parents. I supposed it crushed them when they found out I wasn’t a genius, but a delusional child that told them about the shadows that sat on their shoulders.

Those shadows were the basis of my beliefs and theories that the superstition is not fictitious. It exists in our world now, yet we don’t have the eyes, soul or perspective to see it. I have yet to meet someone who sees the same world as I do. Distortions of mythical creatures that people have yet to lay eyes on sink into the shadows that follow them. This was, essentially, my life. Just learning how to deal with snickering and identifying if a figure was real or not.

I learned how to live with the noises. They ramble aimlessly, but I could sometimes understand what they’re trying to whisper.

Or, what they’re trying to imitate.  
There are times where I tend to focus on  
its roaring engines, whispers, a ringing bell.  
A booming voice, shredding, the mother’s touch.  
Spilt blood, the red in her hands, a curse.  
A curse that chooses the few of many.  
A curse that she has.  
A curse that asks:

”Mommy, what’s happening?”  
I tugged onto the sleeve of my mother’s shirt, trying to peek at what was happening in the front of the plane’s cabin. I thought the screaming was coming from someplace else, that maybe it was in my head. But I saw that it bothered everyone else on board.

My mother looked over at me, still bothered whenever I tried pestering her. She’s always hated me, so nothing is new about this.

”Maybe if you would tie your bangs up, you would know what is happening.”

I ignored her. “Can you at least tell me why the lady keeps screaming? I’m worried about her.”

”She’s having a baby, Amaya.”

“A baby on a plane?” Mom looked at me complacently while I continued on the conversation.

”It’s really something else, isn’t it?”

When traumatic experiences occur, you usually don’t remember anything else before and after the incident. You only recall where the lights were, what the people were talking about, and everything else that ran past your memory. I didn’t know why I was on that plane or where I was going, but I remembered that birth. That cry. I’m sure everyone on this plane will remember the time another life was forced into this world in their flight, but I don’t think they’ll remember how many voices were cackling by the front of the passenger cabin.

I finally managed to peer at the front of the cabin, where flight attendants were scrambling to attend to an expectant mother. I couldn’t see the actual birth, but I could hear the other passengers rambling, bringing out their phones to call their families and tell them what’s happening.

Roaring engines whisper that something was wrong with this baby, cloaking its flaws like how a church bell would ring to mute out the constant chatter of churchgoers.

A booming, ear-piercing scream shreds the air as her mother’s touch grew tight. I saw blood stain the floor of the cabin, and how it stained the hands of those who held the head of a newborn baby.

There she was. The girl born of the sky.

To others, sure, it was a beautiful baby girl. But my ability not only enabled me to see that she wasn’t just a regular girl, but I immediately knew from the get-go that she’s going to lead a cyclic life of misery, trouble, and eventually, acceptance of these occurrences.

I learned later that her name was Alunsina.

It’s a beautiful name for a troubled soul.


End file.
